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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776274">In the Running</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth'>Unforth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Athlete Castiel (Supernatural), Athlete Dean Winchester, Castiel has Memory Problems, M/M, Russian Castiel (Supernatural), School Reunion, meeting again for the first time</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:49:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been looking forward to his college reunion for months - a chance to see old friends, a chance to reconnect, and a chance to show that damn Cas Krushnic that Dean has aged into one hell of a fine looking man, and Krushnic really blew it back in the day.</p><p>He's gonna rub it in Krushnic's face.</p><p>He's gonna *love every minute of it.*</p><p>Except, as it turns out...Krushnic doesn't even remember him.</p><p>What the actual fuck?</p><p>(My story for the first Profound Bond Zine)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Profound: A Destiel Fanzine - Vol. 1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In the Running</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Uh, we've had permission to post these stories for months, I'm just actually this disorganized. (as I said in the ficlet I posted just before this, I'm trying to clean up my Google drive and that means double checking if I've posted stuff...)</p><p>This story is a *serialized story* in the Profound Bond Zines, but this and subsequent stories in the series are all *stand alone*. The second story is already written and will be in the second PB Zine, to be published...imminently - check in with Crypto and the PB folks if you ordered it cause there have been some hold ups but it should be out soon.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Come on, Dean, what’s worse than this Krushnic guy being a jackass to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He ignored me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment’s pause, then Sam spluttered a laugh that he failed to restrain. “I’m sorry, but…” Shaking his head, Sam let loose a belly laugh that doubled him over. “Okay, I’m not sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bottle in Dean’s hand was too heavy. Throwing his head back, closing his eyes, he chugged bitter vodka until his throat burned and his lungs demanded he take a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the bottle came away from his lips, he glanced at his brother. Sam smiled, eyes lowered with pity and sadness.</span>
</p><p><span>Pity? </span><em><span>Sadness</span></em><span>?</span> <span>Fuck, that was even worse than Sam finding Dean’s bullshit situation </span><em><span>amusing</span></em><span>.</span></p><p>
  <span>Dean took another swig.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So...  uh… he didn’t acknowledge you?” asked Sam in his ‘I’m playing shrink’ voice. “That truly sucks. I’m… I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his shame, the tension in Dean’s chest eased at the genuine sympathy in Sam’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignored </span>
  </em>
  <span>me. Like I didn’t exist. Poof. Invisible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Krushnic is a douchebag. Forget about him. And quit hogging the bottle, jerk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, Sam was a pain in the ass, but somehow, talking to him helped Dean feel better. Taking a deep, freeing breath, Dean shook his head. The world spun. Maybe he’d drunk a skosh too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, he’d thought the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>skosh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>too much booze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna forget about him,” Dean announced. “I’m gonna confront him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” grumbled Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m surprised—that’s such a mature approach!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bitch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.” Sam offered the bottle back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naw,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I’ve got an asshole to dress down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now?” exclaimed Sam. “Dean, I’m not sure that’s—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Go forth and… do something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a decisive nod, Dean stood up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world spun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean flopped back onto his ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After I’ve sobered up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers!” Sam emptied the bottle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sprawling in his chair, Dean blinked and saw Krushnic in his mind’s eye, schmoozing at the Reunion banquet, cheerfully talking with their former classmates, refusing to acknowledge Dean with eye contact or a nod or </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignored </span>
  </em>
  <span>me!”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Castiel Krushnic!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean slammed his hand on the table top and immediately had regrets. The surface was hard, and sticky, and instead of a satisfying </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whatever the fucking thing was made of went </span>
  <em>
    <span>dink</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So much for first impressions. Still, Krushnic acknowledged him, lowering his frou frou drink, stopping mid-sentence as he chatted with other alums at the Multi-Year Mixer. Dark eyes side-eyed Dean with contempt, rolled at his companions, returned to Dean with a slow assessment, a smirk, and an utter lack of recognition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t that Krushnic didn’t remember him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Krushnic didn’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>recognize </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, Dean wasn’t regularly running marathons any longer, but he hadn’t let himself go </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>much in the last decade. His hair was still short and spiked. His eyes were still green. His clothes were still casual. He was still a tall lean fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>awesome </span>
  </em>
  <span>drink of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean was still </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Krushnic didn’t recognize him </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, what did it say about </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean had continually striven to keep pace—literally and figuratively—with the best runner at the University of Kansas. Their rivalry was legendary, featured on the regular in the school paper and even in the Lawrence Journal-World. They’d been number one and number two at the school, and in their entire NCAA Division, for years. The need to beat Krushnic had propelled Dean all the way to the Olympic trials. Of course, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>qualified… but he hadn’t missed by much. He’d been seventh in the country, nothing to shake a stick at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Krushnic </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>qualified and had come in 20th in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>world</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All those years Dean had chased Krushnic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Krushnic </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t. even. fucking. recognize him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their so-called competition had meant everything to Dean and it had meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Krushnic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Dean growled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” Krushnic’s deep, eager Russian accent snapped Dean back to the darkened bar and the gross tabletop and the realization that, as close as Dean had come to outrunning Krushnic time and again, they were still a million fricken </span>
  <em>
    <span>light years </span>
  </em>
  <span>apart. “Can I help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean scowled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is… something familiar about you,” Krushnic murmured, frowning. One of the men Krushnic had been speaking with fumbled an apology and excused himself, and the other bolted after as Krushnic eyed Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean should flee, too, but he couldn’t. Krushnic’s confident gaze held him like a Goddamn pin through some pitiful fucking butterfly. Krushnic hadn’t noticed Dean back in the day, but he was looking now, and clearly dug what he saw. Dean reciprocated; Krushnic was devilishly handsome, even when his dark hair was matted down with sweat and his running shorts clung to his sculpted thighs. In the bar, in a suit, sitting debonaire with his manicured faux five o’clock shadow, he was captivating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the past, Krushnic had always looked at Dean with contempt. But now…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean,” he offered. “Dean Winchester.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...maybe, since Krushnic didn’t remember him, Dean stood a chance...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Krushnic’s frown deepened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Fuck, Krushnic </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately, yup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve… changed.” Appreciation warmed Krushnic’s voice again, salt rubbed in the Goddamn wound, and Dean was a fricken slug with a suppurating hole in his fricken chest where his heart used to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gee, overdramatic much, Winchester?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But he was everything to me! And I’m nothing to him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess I have,” he managed bitterly. “I’m going… now…” He forced his white-knuckled grip on the table to release and turned to walk away—from Krushnic, from the club, from the mixer, from the reunion. Time to go back home to his ordinary life and forget he ever competed against a world record holder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aha!” exclaimed Krushnic, arresting him. “You’ve removed your mullet! </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>is why I didn’t recognize you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean froze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mullet?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’ve filled out. Excellent. Lovely. Do you still run?” More than the words, it was Krushnic’s desperate hope that had Dean turning around. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mullet</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Some,” said Dean, hesitating, unsure why he was hesitating. “Only marathons that’re close to home. Boston, New York, Philly and DC last year. Not like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mullet???</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense!” Krushnic dismissed Dean’s self-denigration with a wave and then settled his hand on the chair beside him, inviting Dean to sit. “I remember now! You finished 81st in Boston, impressive.” And Dean, son of a bitch that he was, accepted, sprawling on the stool with an absurd feeling of satisfaction at Krushnic’s relieved smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean had never had a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>mullet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“80th, actually,” Dean corrected. Krushnic had </span>
  <em>
    <span>looked up his results</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What the actual fuck was going on? “The guy who finished 59th was disqualified, something something performance enhancers, so all us schmucks below him got bumped up the ladder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> had a mullet in fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>2008 </span>
  </em>
  <span>when they graduated?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Very</span>
  </em>
  <span> impressive,” gushed Krushnic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God.” Dean’s outburst translated into movement. He tried to rise, slammed his knees on the table, and sank back into his chair with a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you well?” Krushnic asked, alarmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No mullet,” wheezed Dean. Krushnic quirked his head, confused. “Never had a mullet.” Fuck, he even looked gorgeous baffled. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Focus Winchester. We gotta get this shit sorted out</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You definitely had a mullet.” Krushnic brushed a hand over Dean’s shoulder, thumb flicking Dean’s neck where it was bared above his collar. “About yea long.” Oh hell, that was hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was my running mate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ash Lindberg. My running mate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>had a mullet. I never did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Krushnic blinked. “Impossible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean fished his phone from his pocket, scrolling to his Facebook feed. “Still does. See?” Now, he and Ash rarely spoke and never ran together, but once Dean couldn’t have asked for a better wingman in every sense of the word. And Ash still had his Goddamn mullet, showing beneath his stupid hat as he graduated from MIT summa cum laude with his PhD in some obscure field of comp sci. Leagues better than the shit job Dean had done with his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That… that is Dean Winchester!” Krushnic glanced in consternation between the phone screen and Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No dice,” Dean said, shaking his head. At least he knew why Krushnic hadn’t recognized him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean couldn’t fathom how to ask Krushnic how he could have gotten two such different people so completely mixed up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” groaned Krushnic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so instead of anything intelligent, Dean said, “Yeah. Seriously. What the fuck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Freshman year, our team qualifying race, I finished first, you finished second?” asked Krushnic, an adorable kind of desperation giving him an earnest expression. Dean nodded. “After the race, I asked coach, ‘which is Dean?’ and he pointed at </span>
  <em>
    <span>that man</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Krushnic gestured emphatically at the phone. “Derr’mo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Closing his eyes, Dean thought back. Fuck, that race had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Fucking Krushnic had always been just in front of him. He’d left Ash behind at mile 20, pushing, pushing—he had to finish first, had to make the team with that emblem of superiority to his name. But he’d failed. Krushnic was better than him then, had always been and still was better than him, and it drove Dean nuts. He’d still made the team, of course, but he’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>pissed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, ranting his frustration at Ash beside the finish line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was standing next to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Krushnic looked a question at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After that race, Ash and I were together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I mixed you up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean had seen Krushnic confident, elated, exhausted, disappointed, and had always liked what he saw, but Krushnic mortified was easily his favorite expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But… but we raced together for </span>
  <em>
    <span>three fucking years</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Dean laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We ran side by side! We competed together! We stood on podiums together!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you </span>
  <em>
    <span>never fricken realized</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’d screwed up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am world’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>biggest </span>
  </em>
  <span>idiot,” Krushnic confessed, dropping his forehead onto the edge of the table with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reply that sprang to mind—</span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, you are, and it’s too fricken cute</span>
  </em>
  <span>—didn’t strike Dean as appropriate, so he said nothing. The thumping beat of dance music and the babble of the conversations filled the lengthening silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Should I pat him on the back? Reassure him? Tell him it’s okay?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not okay! All that time I wanted him to notice me, all that time I idolized him, and he’s such a dumbass he mixed me up with Ash!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And now I like him even more.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean huffed out a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Krushnic sat up so abruptly that Dean fell back in his chair. “I demand a ‘do over,’” Krushnic snapped, accent thick, hands raised to make air quotes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And now I like him </span>
  </em>
  <span>even fucking more</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ain’t no ‘take twos’ in racing…” Dean softened the words with an open smile, and was pleased to see Krushnic beam in reply, his grin showing teeth, overhead lights lending sparkle to his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I call bullshit,” said Krushnic. Dean spluttered a laugh at the awkward way the phrase came off in Krushnic’s stilted English. “You went from 81st to 80th because another racer was disqualified. I have made a fool’s mistake. The past ten years—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fourteen years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The past </span>
  <em>
    <span>fourteen </span>
  </em>
  <span>years did not happen.” Krushnic met Dean’s eyes, intense, avid, and spectacular. “We return to the starting line. We race again!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Can we… can we do that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The assurance and confidence on Krushnic’s face slipped and he quirked the slightest of hopeful smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. We make the rules for this race. If we want to start again...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Dean drawled, shifting to face Krushnic, one elbow draped over the chair back, legs spread in lazy invitation. “I’m Dean Winchester. Aquarius. I like road races, long walks on the beach, and frisky… partners.” He winked. “You come here often, Krushnic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everything is gonna be fine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. Call me Cas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everything is gonna be fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>awesome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Cas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Dean.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Because this story is serialized, I'll probably make a collection once we're cleared to post more. I really carefully structured both currently written stories so that they could be read as stand alones, and assuming there is a third PB Zine, I will be writing a third installment that will also be stand-alone. Basically, same verse, and the story develops, but if you haven't read them all it should be okay?</p><p>Of course if you're reading on AO3, you *will* be able to read them all so...idek.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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